


Chevron

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Long haired victor, M/M, not much of a narrative, underhanded emotional suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's abstract: a slowly growing, faint dissatisfaction.





	Chevron

**Author's Note:**

> for @gays_on_ice

———

Snow-capped white peaks stretched up to kiss the clear blue sky. The mountains looming over the two youthful figures; all puffy jackets and wool mittens, trudging in knee-deep snow.

Under a red and white beanie, Chris looked up through blonde curls to stare at the harsh limestone peaks. All right-angle folds of grey rock, terminating in sharp points. Champéry was cold, much colder than Bern, but it was worth the trip for more than just he training camp taking place there.

It was April, not long after the end of Chris’ debut into senior division, and by all means it had been a outrageous success. A litany of bronze and silver around his neck, and a season to stare up with pride at the Russian placeholder of the centre podium.

Hazel eyes drifted from the mountains to the other just as imposing figure in front of him. Silver hair bouncing on the shoulders of a red, blue and white jacket. Victor jumped between snow drifts with more grace than a mere mortal deserved. Long, slender legs kicking through white powder, a Russian pop-song on his lips.

They were fast friends, and despite the fact it was hardly Victor’s first trip to Switzerland, training camp seemed the perfect opportunity to ‘relax’ (the word’s of Chris’ coach not his own) after his premiere senior season.

So there they were, the youngest skaters in their senior class in Champéry, trudging from the lodge house to the rink in the thick spring snow fall that had accumulated in the village overnight. Russia’s darling all coy smiles and lingering touches during practice.

Chris wasn’t sure what it all meant.

A snowball hit him directly in the face. He spluttered away the rapidly melting snow, yelping as he avoided another aimed for his chest.

“Vit-ya,” Chris whined with a soft pout, “you got snow down my jacket…”

He shook some of the snow lose from his scarf, wet crystals stuck in his hair.

Victor giggled, an expression (like most of him) too elfin and pretty for a teenage boy, turning back on his heel to stare at Chris with a gleeful expression.

“Okay, then…” one finger came to his lips in thought, blue eyes alight, “Race up the hill to the rink?”

He didn’t wait for Chris to respond before he was off. Boot heels barely crunching the top layer of ice on the snow banks as he raced up the hill.

“Hey!” Chris shouted after him, flinging his scarf aside he dashed up in a mad sprint, “You are a cheater Nikiforov!”

Vitya danced on graceful toes, running backward up the hill just long enough to poke his tongue out at the Swiss teen trailing behind.

Chris took the opportunity, and with a sudden boost of speed caught up to Vitya, heels turning to race up the hill in earnest now. 

The bright spring Sun beat down on them as they ran. Both beaming with wide smiles as they made their way to the top of the hill. The sun caught Victor’s hair, framing his smile as he grasped Chris’ hand before they reached the invisible finish line.

Chris can’t remember who won.

———

He stayed late at the rink with the rest of the Swiss team, day turning into night, yellow light of street lamps beaming back at him from the crisp white snow.

The lodging wasn’t the nicest. It was cold, aged wood, Victor complaining to the organizers when he couldn’t bring his Makkachin along. He’d pout, silver hair hanging in his face, bare feet on the scratching carpet.

“It’s cold Chris.”

Cold without his Makkachin to hug at night, he’d claim, lingering at the base of the bunk. He wouldn’t even wait for a response, just crawl into the bed with Chris. Bed too small for two boys in their late teens.

Chris would make room anyway, trying to ignore the soft scent of Vitya’s hair that lingered around him. Leg’s tangling. Breath heavy.

Victor made soft murmurs in his sleep; Chris would lay in the dark and watch the faint movement of his pink lips and try not to think of how they’d feel on his cock. Trying and failing when he’d inevitably slip from the bed and into the washroom to jerk off; biting his lips to keep the moans tumbling from his lips and into the bedroom were Victor slept unknowingly.

Except when he’d creep back in the bedroom, Victor would be awake. Sleep tousled hair falling over his face and pillow creases across his cheeks.

“Chr-is, it’s cold.”

It was only ever innocent those nights before (relatively speaking).

But this… this was anything but.

Chris pushed through the door, chin in his scarf, mittens gripped in one hand. He stopped abruptly in the doorway at the realization of the image in front of him.

_Vitya._

The dress was clearly pilfered from some rack of female skating outfits at the rink; glittering rhinestones and silver embroidery on blood red fabric. Red like the lipstick on his lips in contrast to his white skin.

He was all nude stockings on scratchy polyester carpet, silver threads around his bare shoulders. Eyes all blue-green secrets.

Chris was still holding the door handle, glued in place as Victor _prowled_ up to him. Residual light filtered from the window into the darkened room, catching winking rhinestones as his body moved and shifted. Ivory skin alight.

Chris’ heartbeat was in his ears like the roar of an impending tsunami.

“Chris.”

His mouth moved and Chris couldn’t tear his eyes away from his lips. Smooth and red. Victor reached behind him to close the door, door handle clammy with sweat. He inhaled, sandwiched between thin wood and Victor, mittens clenched in the grip of one hand. 

Hazel eyes dazed.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Chris?”

He couldn’t find words to respond before Victor’s hand was on his wrist, leading him to the bunk. Chris stumbled over his feet, mittens and bag dropped halfway to the destination. Scarf unravelling from his neck to trail across the carpet.

Two hands on his shoulders pushed him to sit. He was embarrassingly hard in his red and white track pants. Fabric tented so obviously between his legs. He would have try to cover himself, cross his legs, _something_ , but Victor was staring at him with prickling blue eyes.

Victor’s hand fell from Chris’ shoulders to his knees, spreading them to kneel between them, stockings shifting barely-perceptible threads over his thighs. As if trying to lessen the tension, Victor’s cheek dropped to one of Chris’ thighs, gaze levelling back up to stare.

“Do you want to touch me?”

He murmured. And to Chris he almost sounded unsure. As if anyone in the universe could have said no to such a request. There was a curl of want deep in Chris’ belly as he slowly brought one hand up to finger through a strand of silver hair.

He curled the strand around his finger like silk. He could smell it already, that soft shampoo and faint scent that was all over his sheets, his clothes.

“Ch-ris.”

He voice whined, red lips pouting as if he were mad a being forgotten. The question remained unanswered. 

Victor shifted his haunches against his heels, knees spreading just a little for Chris to see underneath the skirt… underneath to his erection trapped within the sheer nylon.

Chris swallowed, dropping the strand of hair. It made it’s slow approach to touch Victor’s cheek with the faintest of tremors.

“Yes.”

He exhaled.

———

“Ch-ris.”

His blue-green eyes were wide like they always were when he didn’t get what he wanted.

“Touch me.”

He panted heavily with each thrust and each resonating slap of skin against skin. The air thick with steam, rivulets of water running over pale skin. Still all long-legs despite the years.

“Oui, oui, mon cher. Soon.”

Chris whispered into his ear, one hand twisted about his short silver locks. Giving one more aborted thrust forward, he pulled out entirely with a soft ‘pop’ of skin, faintly audible under the shower stream.

Victor’s face was peaked in pink and desperate. Still en pointe, chest pressed into the frosted glass of the shower stall.

“But—“

Victor couldn’t finish his complaints when Chris was there, mouth on his, tongue thrusting in and out. Everything tasting faintly of champagne and bile. His hand slipped from the damp silver hair and to the back of Victor’s neck, turning him enough to deepen the kiss, free hand realigning himself with Victor’s puffy and abused rim.

He whimpered, even as Chris entered him again, a pout masked his expression. With a barely perceptible sigh Chris slipped his hand around to fist Victor’s cock in a loose grip.

The next thrust was hard, almost aggressive, a sharp snap of Chris’ hips had him sheathed back inside Victor.

The Russian’s hands grappled helplessly at the glass leaving patterns in the condensation. There was a faint frown on Chris’ face as he increased his pace, sucking breath through his teeth. It was the third time that night.

“So. Good. To. Me.”

Victor choked out between each thrust before finally coming in Chris’ grasp. Stripes of cum splattering across the tile to be immediately collected and washed down the drain. Globs sticking between Victor’s curled toes.

Chris gave a final grunt, a primal little noise, before pulling out and painting the slightly gaping hole in short splatters of cum. He didn’t have much left to give. He was always giving.

Chris shook his head, heavy with alcohol and steam, damp curls sticking to his forehead.

Victor was already arching back into the stream of water, washing away the marks Chris had left. Streaks of cum trickling and gurgling back down the drain with the rest of it.

“What was his name again?”

Victor’s cheerful (yet slightly out of breath) voice pulled him from his momentary reverie. His eyes detached with a soft and far-away look, something so radically different from the sex that had just taken place.

Chris exhaled through his nose, pushing himself closer to Victor under the steam.

“Who, darling?”

Vitya pouted, shooting him a sour look that might have been teasing. Like always.

“Chr-is!”

He pushed him playfully, forcing Chris to shoot a hand out to the wall to catch his balance on the slippery tile. Victor laughed a little, stumbling and drunk out of the shower.

He snatched his phone ( _Chris’ phone_ ) from the counter, unlocking it with deft strikes of his thumb. Chris saw him flicking through the photo stream captured from the banquet, humming as he dried his hair and exited the bathroom. The door closed with a soft clatter of metal on wood.

Chris watched his silver medal swing back and forth on the door handle. 

Like always.

———


End file.
